


Shields Will Be Broken, A Realm Will Be Forged

by lightifer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accounting, Banking, Character Death, Crusader Kings 2 - Freeform, Economics, F/M, Finance, Grimdark, Joffrey - Freeform, Original Character(s), Realistic, Self-Insert, War, crusader kings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:48:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25522375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightifer/pseuds/lightifer
Summary: He smiled as he did it. Hundreds of thousands would die and yet Joffrey smiled. In that moment, Jamie knew that he had stabbed the wrong king. Jamie's hands twitched, yearning to draw his sword. He suppressed the urged, but not before Joffrey caught the movement. "Are you going to stab me too... Father?"
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Informational**

**Sources:** This game was based off a playthrough of _Crusader Kings 2: A Game of Thrones Mod._ The link to the playlist is:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCeHbhOdGy8&list=PLND0frZlxdw8O88DTu8cV-i2EHfxSMXuK

The most important episode in the series is Episode 3: The Dictators Handbook. It summarizes Joffrey’s mindset very well. Please watch that one- and if it isn’t too much trouble, please subscribe.

**Alternative Sites to find this story:** These are all the sites where I’ve posted this story. My stories tend to be dark and political. Whether my story stays up or not depends on the mods- and I can’t do anything about that. What is acceptable on Spacebattles might not be on AlternateHistory and vice-versa. The way I get around it is to post my stories to multiple sites.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13653662/1/Shields-Will-Be-Broken-A-Realm-Will-Be-Forged

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/shields-will-be-broken-a-realm-will-be-forged.869866/

https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/shields-will-be-broken-a-realm-will-be-forged-asoiaf-joffrey-si-oc.70330/

https://www.alternatehistory.com/forum/threads/shields-will-be-broken-a-real-will-be-forged-asoiaf-joffrey-si-oc.493459/

https://www.the-sietch.com/index.php?threads/shields-will-be-broken-a-realm-will-be-forged-asoiaf-joffrey-si-oc.3180/

https://www.quotev.com/story/12932183/Shields-Will-Be-Broken-A-Realm-Will-Be-Forged-ASOIAF-Joffrey-SI-OC

https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/shields-will-be-broken-a-realm-will-be-forged-asoiaf-joffrey-si-oc.12589/

**Support Me:** To be clear, this isn’t for the story. Legally, I can’t earn money off fanfiction. This if for my YouTube channel… which can be considered a visual accompaniment to my stories. Currently, my channel isn’t doing great. Part of that is because my equipment isn’t great. I’m stuck using a blue snowball mic, for instance, which results in bad audio. Help me fix that by supporting me on Patreon.

Link: https://www.patreon.com/lightifer2


	2. Chapter 2

Darren walked through the streets of King’s Landing at a meandering pace. His nostrils filled with the smell of excrement and garbage, rotting under the morning sun. It wasn’t the smell that irritated him though; he considered that to be normal. It was the noise. It was that song.

The bards had been playing it more and more frequently lately and Darren couldn’t say he enjoyed it. It was clear some did, however. A crowd had formed, chanting the chorus with the bard.

_My daddy was a miner_  
And I'm a miner's son  
And I'll stick with the king  
'Til every battle's won 

It was from the Westerlands, or so Darren had heard. Royalist sentiments ran deep there. The king was the grandson of their lord, after all.

Things were more divided in the capital. It wasn’t too long ago that the Royalists had been rebelling themselves. It hadn’t been so long ago that the Lannister’s had sacked King’s Landing.

Darren was too young to remember it- he had been four at the time. Not everyone was so young, however. Some had very clear memories of the event. Of the rapes, of the killings, and of the horrid flames. Now, the same army that once sacked the city was charged with defending it. For many, this brought forth a jumbled mix of emotions.

Perhaps that was why the bards insisted on playing the song so often.

Turning, Darren tried to catch a glimpse of the bard- trying to see if he had blonde hair. Trying to see if he was from the Westerlands. Darren couldn’t see anything- the crowd was too thick.

For a moment, he considered turning around and going back in, but then he decided not to. It wouldn’t be worth the effort. It was as likely as not that the bard didn’t have any grand plan and was just doing it for the coin. The song was catchy. Irritating, but catchy.

Besides, Darren was already running late. As an apprentice blacksmith, his hours weren’t his own. He learned what his master ordered when he ordered it.

Master Preytan Garner was a predictable man, however. The best time to work the forge was at night and early morning, when it was cooler. Consequently, Preytan routinely gave Darren a break slightly after noon so that he could rest and get lunch, before coming back for his evening shift.

Today, that didn’t happen. The King had placed a few hundred rush orders for assortments of pikes, crossbows, arrows, and armor. Every blacksmith on the street of steel was working overtime, day, and night, to meet the demand. Preytan, and by extension Darren, was no exception.

He’d had to toil for nearly an extra hour before Preytan let up on him. Now, he was sweaty and tired. Even worse, he had arranged to meet a few friends at the pub and was running drastically late. Darren hoped they hadn’t left already.

Seeing the bar in front of him, Darren sped up slightly. As much as he could in the narrow, packed streets of the capital. Normally, it would be impossible to make any sort of headway, but Darren was a blacksmith and had the bulk to show for it. He also wasn’t too shy to shunt people to the side. He muttered ‘sorry’ and ‘excuse me’ as he weaseled his way past before slipping into the bar.

The interior reeked of piss and spilled ale. Two smells that Darren was very used to. Most places he ate at smelled like that.

Darren looked around for his friends, eyes straining slightly in the relatively dark interior. There were only three windows letting light into the front of the bar. The rest of the pub was left in a stale gloom, just as his friends preferred. It was why they always sat at the back. He spotted them easily enough; Adrien and Ormund. It was Adrien’s fault- his golden hair drew the eye.

Darren sauntered over and- before anyone could ask why he was late- offered Adrien a cocky grin. “How ya doin’ bastard?” Darren then proceeded to plop himself down into a vacant seat. He raised one of his feet on the table and pushed, tilting himself back, before raising an eyebrow at Adrien as though to say ‘Yeah, I called you a bastard. What are you going to do about it?’

Adrien offered him a tight smile. Not offended but more tired. Better than how he had reacted when he first got here. “There is more than one thing to joke about, you know?”

“Our humblest apologies your lordship,” Ormund chimed in from his position slumped against the wall. In his hands were a nearly full mug of ale. Ormund wasn’t a heavy drinker at the best of times but he didn’t like not having a drink around. Mostly because the other men would mock him for it.

As a workaround, he kept a mug of ale at hand during mealtimes. He would drink some of it, but the rest he would get rid of in creative ways. Darren had caught him in the act once or twice but didn’t bring it up. The last time he had taunted Ormund, he had burst into tears- something Darren still felt guilty about. No fun to tease someone like that. Adrien was much better. No tears, just anger.

Still, this time Adrien decided to spoil the fun. Instead of coming at him with fists, he came at Darren with words. “At least I know my mother, can you say the same?”

“I’m pretty sure half the city knows your mother, kid. As for me, I got to know her very well last night.” Ormund burst into laughter while Darren let a triumphant grin stretch across his face. Adrien raised his mug and dipped his head to concede the round to him, before knocking back a drink.

When the laughter died down, Ormund looked at Adrien curiously. “Why are you taking this so well mate? Normally you’d be coming at Darren with fists by now.”

“Just-” Adrien trailed off. His eyes drifted to the side before refocusing. “Just tired, I suppose. I have had a lot on my mind recently.”

“Like what?” Ormund asked. Darren thought about cutting in with a joke but by the time he thought of one, Adrien was already replying. “Have you been paying attention to the war?”

“Course we have.” Meanwhile, Darren let out a hearty “Nope.”

Ormund looked incredulous. “Whatcha mean ‘nope?’ We live in the capital- all the armies are heading here. If the capital is gonna be sacked ‘gain, don’t ya think ya ought to know?’

“And do what?” Darren asked. “Clean out my ass so the raper can have a better time fucking me? Way I see it, there ain’t nothing we can do. Capital stands, it stands. Capital falls, it falls. Worrying about it ain’t gonna change nothing.”

“We can leave,” Ormund countered. “If we get enough warning, I mean. The guards will let us out, right? Less mouths to feed and everything.”

“And go where?” Darren countered. “All my stuff is here. My house, my forge, my job. I leave, I’ll have to leave those behind. I don’t have much money. Life ain’t kind to a homeless peasant wandering the countryside.”

The banter was familiar. Easy to slip into. Before Ormund and Darren could really get into it, Adrien cut in. “I’m joining the army.” A pregnant pause ensued. After a moment, Adrien continued lamely. “Just- just thought you should know.”

Darren and Ormund looked at him for a moment in varying degrees of surprise. “Aren’t the Lannister’s losing every fight in the Riverlands?” Ormunds voice was careful, deliberate, as he asked the question. He was trying to wrap his mind around what Adrien was thinking.

Grudgingly, Adrien nodded. Darren wasn’t nearly as considerate as Ormund. “If you want to kill yourself, I’m willin’ to help. No need to join the army to do it mate.”

“Are you happy?”

The non-sequitur threw them for a loop. While Ormund tried to connect the question to the conversation that they had been having, Darren plowed on through. “And you think joinin’ the army is gonna make you happy? Hate to break it ya’ mate, but the war ain’t a tourney. You’re going to have a lot less fun charging at another man with a pointy stick when there ain’t a pretty maiden there to swoon over you.”

“What wonderful insight, Lord Darren.” The condescension was thick, coating every syllable that Adrien uttered. “It’s not like I grew up in a castle surrounded by the knights sworn to my father, the Lord of Sow’s Horn. It’s not like I ever asked them what war was like- you know, men who fought in a war. As opposed to you, who is merely echoing what he heard in the mouths of drunks and cravens.”

Darren opened his mouth to retaliate, but Ormund physically stopped him from speaking. He brought his left palm up to Darren’s mouth just as Darren started to speak, muffling the words, and drawing the attention of both his compatriots. Darren shoved his hand off and glared, confused.

Warningly, Ormund shook his head. “Adrien’s in a bad mood. Don’t rile him up.” And then seeing that Darren was getting increasingly irritated, Ormund turned to Adrien. A way to signal the conversation was over- to signal control where he had none. A way to run away from a man twice his size and built like a bull without running away. “Why do you think joining the army is going to make you happy?”

Adrien opened his mouth and closed it again. He repeated the cycle once more. Ormund waited patiently and Darren not so patiently. Darren looked back and forth between them, trying to read the mood. Should he say something?

Before he could decide, Adrien found somewhere to start. “My father, the Lord of Sow’s Horn, had no sons besides me for the longest time. Daughter either, come to think of it. He had me when he was a young man- back when he was six-and-ten. Before his riding accident. It left him with trouble,” Adrien searched for a delicate way to conclude his sentence. He settled on “copulating.”

For all his trouble, he ought not to have bothered. Darren burst out laughing anyway. “You mean the Lord of Sow’s Horn can’t get his ‘horn’ to work?” Both Adrien and Ormund glared at him to no avail. Darren laughed right on.

When he trailed off thirty-seconds later, Adrien asked through gritted teeth, “Are you done?”

“Can’t get his horn to work,” Darren chuckled before waving to Adrien to carry on. Adrien didn’t look happy but didn’t walk away. Nor was he in the mood to give the long-winded version of events anymore. “I’m a bastard, but because my father had trouble siring proper heirs, he defaulted to me. It was either that or letting his house go extinct.

“He had me trained since I was four to fight with sword and spear. He had me knighted at age ten-and-seven when I won my first tourney. He gave me a fine set of armor to celebrate after it- armor fit for the heir to a rich Lord. I was supposed to be his heir. And then he got married to that wanton cunt, sired his insipid little brat, and exiled me here.”

“I wouldn’t say that being sent to the capital is the same thing as being exiled to the Red Wastes.”

Adrien let out a bitter laugh. “I live in a hole in the ground. I used to live in a castle and now I live in a hole in the ground. I used to eat fine meals prepared in the kitchens, now I’m fairly certain that I’ve just eaten a murder victim,” Adrien gestured angrily to the bowl of brown before them.

“You’re exaggerating,” Darren said, rolling his eyes. “You’re da’ sent you here with plenty o’ money. You live in one of the nicer inns and eat plenty o’ good food.”

“Because my brother might not live. Many infants don’t make it- and if the gods are kind, then he’ll be one of them.”

Ormund looked appalled. “You can’t mean that. He’s a baby. It wasn’t his fault that he was born to your father.”

“Fault or no, that baby is stealing my inheritance. He might die yet, but if he doesn’t- tell me, have you heard of the Blackfyre rebellions?” Without waiting for either of them to respond, he continued, “The Blackfyre rebellions were started by the favored son of Aegon the Unworthy- Daemon Blackfyre. Daemon was Aegon’s favored son- favored far over his other son, Daeron the Good. Daemon got everything that he needed to legitimize his claim, including the Valyrian sword Blackfyre, the sword of the Conqueror himself. When he rebelled, half the realm answered his call and all the realm bled. The moral of the tale, when read to trueborn sons, is simple. Never trust your bastard siblings for they might try to steal your inheritance.”

Adrien took a deep swing of his ale. “I will never see my home again. I am my father’s eldest son and an anointed knight. My claim is too great and too legitimate for anyone to risk. As soon as my brother reaches five name days, my family will cut me off and leave me here to die far from them.”

“He might still die. He is two now. A lot can happen in three years.” The words felt odd to say. Ormund never imagined that there would be a day where he would be comforting a friend by wishing for the death of his baby brother.

Adrien didn’t reply at first, instead he watched the ripples on the amber liquid in his cups. Then softly, so softly that it strained the ear to hear, he whispered, “It is already too late.”

Darren and Ormund looked at one another, silently asking who should speak. Darren leaned away to make it clear that it shouldn’t be him- he felt bad for his friend of two years, but he wasn’t good at this touchy-feely crap. If he spoke, he’d try to lighten the mood. In this scenario, it would just make the situation worse.

Ormund expected as much and decided to write off Darren for the rest of this conversation- at least until the sensitive bits were over. He turned back to Adrien and said, “It’s never too late.” A meaningless platitude, but it was all he could offer unless Adrien gave him more to work with.

Adrien complied with the prying. Silently, he shook his head. “It is too late. Did I ever tell you about Talla?”

Ormund tried to think back, cycling through conversations, looking for that name. It was Darren that answered though. “You didn’t. I’d remember if you mentioned a pretty lass.”

“She was,” Adrien replied. “Pretty, I mean. Her full name is Talla Byrch. She’s the sister to Lord Devan of Byrch Hall.” Another swing. “You know, I remember this one time- I think we were twelve then- that someone tried to pick on a servant in front of her. It was a boy, three years older than her. I think it was the son of some landed knight or another. Either way, she walked right up to him and smacked him so hard his cheeks positively glowed red. He got angry at her- I don’t think he knew that she was a noble lady- and was going to hit her back and so I intervened. It made me feel like a knight, defending a lady’s honor.

“We talked after that and struck up a friendship. We grew older and friendship turned to love. This was back when I still had an inheritance- one befitting a lady. Byrch Hall and Sow’s Hall are right next to each other. It would have been a good alliance. We were to get married.”

Ormund put the pieces together. “She got married.” It wasn’t a question.

Adrien nodded anyway. He still hadn’t looked up from his drink. “To Florian Buckwell, Heir to The Antlers.” He swished his ale around his cup, watching it move. “I suppose it’s a good alliance. Florian’s father, Morgan, has two-thousand soldiers but is right on the border to the Riverlands- right next to Maidenpool and Darry. The thousand extra soldiers from Byrch Hall might save a lot of lives.”

“But you’re not happy.” This wasn’t a question either.

Once more, Adrien replied anyway. “But I’m not happy. You know, I’ve spent the last two years trying to pretend it wasn’t real. That I wasn’t losing my inheritance. I kept telling myself that my brother would die any day now and I’d be allowed to go home. I told myself everything would be like I left it, with the cracked step leading to the kitchen and stubborn old Lothar in the training yard.

“I’m starting to realize that even if I do return, nothing will be the same. The world has continued without me, whether I like it or not. There is nothing left for me there. And that’s if I get to go back. More likely than not, my brother will live and enjoy my inheritance by right of coming out of the right cunt.”

The notes carried a tone of finality to them, one that Ormund couldn’t argue with. Instead, he changed tracts. “How does this lead to you joining the army?”

“I’m not getting Sow’s Horn, I’m not getting the accompanying lands, and I’m not getting Talla,” Adrien replied, his voice shifting slightly, going from bleak depression to a bleak sort of resolve. “But I am determined to get a castle, some lands, and a beautiful wife. Luckily, I happen to be a knight and the King desperately needs those. I hear Stark killed all the others under his employ.”

“Yeah,” Ormund agreed. “Stark killed all the others. Do you want to go against those odds?”

Adrien finally looked up. The blue eyes were rimmed with red- how had they missed it before? When he spoke both Darren and Ormund could pick up the resolve in his voice. “That will make it even more impressive when I cut Stark’s head off and present it to King Joffrey. He’ll have to reward my services. He has to.”

No one spoke for a few seconds and then Darren, in the softest voice he used in years, spoke. “Mate, the girl ain’t worth it. You say you want a reward, but this sounds like glorified suicide to me. Stay here. You’re a good man with good skills. You can find a humble living and get married to a nice girl right here. I know a few- I’d be happy to introduce you.”

“And leave my children- the family I want to start- with what? Just take a walk down the street and look around. Starving, emancipated children everywhere. They’re like skeletons with a thin film of skin stretched over them. Walking corpses with no futures.

“I bring them into the world and tell them what? That they are peasants and not lords because their father was a craven? That my sword remained sheathed because I was too afraid to fight- to risk my life to defend them and their birthright? Can such a report be glorious in the eyes of Gods and men?

“No. All who live must die, but I won’t do so with a whimper. If the stranger is going to take me, it will be with a sword in my hand. It will be as I try to claw my way back to the glory and honor that I have lost. And I want you to come with me.”

“Come again?” Ormund asked, his eyebrows raised. “We’re trying to talk you out of going to war. What makes you think we want to go?”

“Aye, if you stay here you may live. Assuming the city isn’t sacked of course- if it is, then you’ll be dead regardless. Difference is, instead of a glorious death on the battlefield, you’ll die a craven’s death. But let’s assume you live- live till your eighty. You will die eventually. Think hard on what you are going to leave behind.”

Ormund look at him for a moment. And then he spoke, his voice noticeably colder. "Not all of us have the luxury of being able to chase wild dreams. I already have a family. A mother and two sisters who need to be fed and clothed. I can't feed them if I get myself killed gallivanting in the Riverlands."


	3. Chapter 3

In the books, the Stark plan had been to launch a chevauchee to humiliate the Lannister’s and force Tywin to respond. This move would draw the Lannister forces westward, where the Starks could engage him head-on. Robb thought that he had a solid chance of winning the battle- and if he had won, then he would have knocked out a powerful region opposing him.

This plan went awry when Edmure Tully chose to engage the Lannister’s at the Stone Mill and along the Red Fork, halting their advance westward and forcing them to turn east.

The victory that Edmure won was turned to ash when he talked to Brynden and Robb, both of whom lambasted him for his decision. The fault for the plan failing was laid entirely at Edmure’s feet- and no culpability was laid at the feet of Robb and Brynden, the two most at fault for the blunder.

Edmure had been told by Robb and Brynden that the Northern army was heading to the Westerlands to weaken the Lannister powerbase and pillage supplies for the upcoming winter. Given that Robb sent back supplies to Riverrun, there was no reason for Edmure to doubt the plan was what it was. The greatest danger to this plan, from what Edmure knew, was Tywin returning and putting an end to the Northern pillaging spree.

The most sensible action that he could take to benefit Robb’s cause, therefore, was to prevent Tywin’s return West.

Edmure acted as well as he could with the information, he had available. The fact that the information was inaccurate was not his fault. It was a flaw with Robb’s style of leadership, one that overly centralized the decision making and only informed key commanders of the tactics to be used, as opposed to the strategy at play.

Joffrey wasn’t eager to repeat the Young Wolf’s mistakes. Especially because, unlike Robb Stark, Joffrey was no military genius. He didn’t know much about warfare and it was too late to rectify that in any meaningful way. He was already in the middle of a war- the time needed to become proficient wasn’t available to him at present.

He didn’t have to be, however. Joffrey believed that no man could know everything, and a good leader ought to be humble in recognition of what he didn’t know. Joffrey didn’t hesitate to look for experts who were qualified to advise him.

Westeros was a feudal society. Consequently, all lords had martial training. The list of knights and lords qualified to advise him was long, but the list of trustworthy lords and knights were much shorter. It was an area where his knowledge of canon couldn’t help him, so once more, Joffrey looked for someone that he trusted to advise him.

His desire for competent advice ruled out his mother. Cersei was loyal, but she was likely to put someone like Lancel or Osmund Kettleback in charge of his army. Both of those men could be counted on to follow Joffrey’s orders to the letter, but neither were exceptional commanders. Not what he was looking for.

Joffrey didn’t trust Tyrion. In canon, he had murdered Tywin and served Daenerys Targaryen. In the show, he was somewhat reluctant to harm his family, but in the books, he joined expressly for the sake of killing as many Lannister’s as possible.

Joffrey wasn’t sure which dimension he was in, but what he was sure of was that Tyrion was one secret away from turning on the Lannister’s- and on Joffrey himself, by extension. If the truth about Tysha was ever revealed, then he would betray them. The best Joffrey could do was minimize the damage and hold him at arm’s length.

Varys and Baelish- neither were to be trusted.

Varys in the show shared the same flaw as Tyrion. He was too principled, determined to aid the common people of the realm. Varys in the books was loyal to Aegon Targaryen the Sixth. In both cases, he couldn’t be trusted.

Baelish, on the other hand, was a serpent. He was cunning and had his eye on the Iron Throne. He was useful for the time being, however. It was Baelish that had negotiated the alliance between the Lannister’s and Tyrell’s, after all. He would have to be rewarded- Joffrey couldn’t not reward those who did him a great service- but he would also be closely watched. Never trusted, most certainly not to recommend a general.

The last member of his small council was Pycelle, an old man with no connection to the military. Joffrey didn’t bother asking him.

Instead, he turned to his allies outside the capital. His first impulse was to try to recruit Randyll Tarly, a famed general and important Reach Lord. He eventually decided against it, however, because promoting one of their vassals over them would hurt relations with the Tyrells.

As a last resort, he turned to his grandfather, Tywin Lannister. Getting a message to him was slow and risky, given that he was fighting in the Riverlands, but the message went through fortuitously. Tywin’s reply came in the form of Burton Crakhall, younger brother to the Lord of Crakehall.

Burton was fifty-six years old and had lived through the War of the Nine Penny King’s, the Reyne Rebellion, Robert’s Rebellion, and the Greyjoy Rebellion. Burton had served both as a warrior and as a general in all four of those wars and had earned his nickname, Burton the Strong.

Even now, Burton was broad-shouldered with barrel arms, muscles visible despite sallow skin hanging off his frame like curtain drapes. Joffrey could scarcely imagine what he must have looked like at his prime. Despite his weakened frame, his brown flecked eyes were sharp and assessing, studying the world around him intently, always judging and ascertaining. It assuaged concerns Joffrey had about Burton’s age. His mind was as sharp as ever.

That first meeting was cordial enough, though Joffrey had been displeased to note that Burton wasn’t taking him particularly seriously. It made sense, on one level. Joffrey was physically twelve.

Under most circumstances, the kingdom would be ruled by the Regent until the king came of age at sixteen. The regent for Joffrey was his mother, Cersei. Burton was expecting to meet her.

In this case, however, Cersei had Joffrey coronated hastily to invalidate the final will of Robert I. The one that said that Eddard Stark should be the regent until Joffrey came of age in four years. In so doing, she had ensured that as far as the laws were concerned, Joffrey was the lawful king.

This didn’t necessarily translate to societal acceptance, however, and most people still looked to the Queen Regent for approval. If they approached Joffrey, it was probably because they were expecting an easily manipulated child. One who, on paper, wielded tremendous power and could legally give them quite a lot.

It was irritating, but there was little Joffrey could do about it until he was fully grown. Until then, his best response would be to keep his regent in the loop and involved in the decision-making process. Given how much Cersei loved him and how familiar she was with the local politics, it wasn’t a bad idea and he might have done that regardless. Being seen acting together also kept people from wondering who they ought to be following, so that was another plus.

This was one of the cases where he didn’t do that.

Joffrey knew precious little about warfare, but he had a vague idea about how the United States military-operated at the highest levels. It was something that he had learned about in the wake of the assassination of Qasem Soleimani, the Iranian general.

From the little that Joffrey had gleaned from the news coverage surrounding the assassination, the highest level of the United States military was made up of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The members of the Chiefs were the highest-ranking army personnel in the United States, made up of leaders of the army, the navy, and the air force.

They would gather and make a list of options for the president- who didn’t necessarily have military experience despite being the commander in chief- to look over. They would explain the options and he would choose one from the list.

Joffrey liked the idea of setting up his military command like that for multiple reasons. The main one was that it facilitated communication between various branches of the military, and between different members of the brass, making sure that what happened with Edmure Tully and Robb Stark didn’t happen here. It ensured that all commanders were familiar with the strategic parameters and had flexibility as to how to meet those parameters on the field.

The second one was that having a plethora of generals and personnel advising him would offset Joffrey’s inexperience. From a list of five options, how difficult could it be to pick one?

The first step was to pick his chiefs of staff and ensure that they were all familiar with the strategic goals, so in that first meeting with Burton, Joffrey brought him up to date on the goals of the war and the problem with Westeros as he saw it.

The Seven Kingdoms of the Iron Throne- the name was the problem. Seven Kingdoms.

Even though the Targaryen’s had forced the independent kingdoms of Westeros to bend the knee to them, they had never truly taken those independent kingdoms and forged a single realm.

A peasant living in the North today had the same life as one living in the North three centuries ago. They lived under the same great house, the Starks. They lived within the same region, the North. The laws were the same, the taxes, the armies, etc.

Consequently, the people of the seven kingdoms were more loyal to their local lord than their lord paramount, and more loyal to their lord paramount than the king on the Iron Throne. This led to a very unstable power system that only got more unstable once the Targaryen dragons died, and with it, their ability to keep their vassals in check.

The Crownlands lacked the manpower and resources needed to keep one major kingdom in check, never mind seven. Ultimately, the system ensured that it was the king that was at the mercy of his vassals rather than the other way around.

If he wanted his family to retain their power going forward, Joffrey would have to change that, and this war provided an opportunity to restructure Westeros.

With the Tully’s rebelling, Joffrey had an opportunity to revoke their control over the Riverlands- and with it, turn the central region of Westeros into a new, larger Crownlands. With Stannis rebelling, Joffrey had an opportunity to take away Storms End and the Stormlands and turn it into the seat of the heir to his throne.

Let Storms End be to House Durrandon-Lannister what Dragonstone was to the Targaryen’s. Burton had questioned him on why his name had changed from Baratheon- Joffrey explained that it was a way to distinguish him from his treacherous Baratheon uncles.

This arrangement would give the Royal Family direct control over two major kingdoms with blood ties to the Westerlands and to the Reach, for at least one generation. Possibly more, depending on how things went.

This, Joffrey told Burton, had the potential to be the war to end all wars. Of course, to do that they would have to win the war convincingly. The larger the army the opposing side had, the greater their negotiating power. The smaller their army was, the more draconian the terms Joffrey could and would offer.

Joffrey gave Burton the civil vision and goal that this war was aimed at providing- a clear set of victory conditions. Now, it was up to Burton and the officers he chose for his army to figure out how to make it a reality.

It had been a week since that first meeting, and now Joffrey was meeting with Burton, the Chief General of his armies, as well as the rest of his Chiefs of Staff.

The Royal Navy had only twenty ships left after Stannis had stolen the rest on his way out. Consequently, the navy no longer could project power outside of the narrow straits of Blackwater Bay. Especially not with a chunk of Stannis’s navy stationed at Dragonstone, right outside the capital. Joffrey didn’t expect them to play much of a role in the upcoming conflict and their inclusion in the meeting was done more for the sake of appearances than anything else.

His expectations for the navy were so low that he didn’t even bother assigning them an admiral. Instead, he had the captains gather and elect one of their own for the position.

The man they settled on was Barrock Cantell, a peasant from the Vale with the looks to match. Poor hygiene had rotted away his teeth, marring otherwise handsome features. His blue eyes roamed the room nervously. Joffrey imagined it was his first time being around so many important men and let it pass.

The final member of his Chiefs of Staff was his mother, the head of the newly created Department of Military Information. Previously, the Master of Whispers oversaw everything regarding subterfuge; civil and militaristic alike. Joffrey changed that.

Varys was the head of the newly christened National Security Agency (NSA), which was theoretically focused on internal surveillance and protecting the king from assassination attempts. Also, theoretically, there should be a third branch involving foreign subterfuge- a Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) of his own.

In practice, training spies required time and money, and Joffrey had neither to spare. As such, Cersei oversaw an empty department with no employees. The height of her intelligence gathering capabilities was interviewing different members of the government and gathering information from them.

The one thing that this practically accomplished was that it gave Joffrey a way to invite Cersei to meetings without losing face. Having to have his mother babysit him undermined his authority- as did blatantly inviting her in her capacity as regent. It was more palatable to invite her as the head of a military department.

The members trickled into the War Room one at a time. Once upon a time, it had been the Small Council Chambers, but he relocated them to the Tower of the Hand. The only entrance to the War Room was past the Iron Throne itself. The room was in the most fortified place in the Red Keep, which meant that any spies would have a difficult time getting access.

The work that the Small Council did, while important, was not nearly as vital to keep secret. It could be hosted in the slightly less secure Tower of the Hand.

Joffrey entered the room last. The other members of the council hadn’t sat yet- it would be impolite to do so before the king. Each of the three members stood behind their chairs. Cersei looked annoyed, as though she couldn’t believe she had to observe these formalities. Burton did not react, face like stone. Barrock was glancing at the other two, trying to glean why they were both standing yet following suit regardless.

The room itself had minor cosmetic changes made to it. The chairs were still the same, black woods with a white cushion and back-rest.

The table was still the same stone table, but the coverings had been changed. It used to be an ornate brown and silver covering fitting for the place from which a kingdom had been ruled. Joffrey stripped the finery away, leaving the cool marble bare- the perfect surface for the map of Westeros placed atop it and a better surface to write on.

The fruit bowl that used to be in the center of the table had been moved and the jugs of wine emptied. Joffrey found the bowl irritating, so he had it moved to the corner of the room, and he didn’t want drunk advisers, so he replaced the wine with boiled water.

The painting on the wall was the only décor left untouched. The image of a joust was fitting for the walls of King Robert the First given his interests, but it wasn’t without a place at a War Room.

Joffrey took his spot at the head of the table, drawing his chair out and sitting. The sound of the wood scraping against stone was unbearably loud in the otherwise quiet room, but no one said anything. Somewhat embarrassed, Joffrey said, “You may all sit.”

A cacophony of noise followed as the rest of the council took their spots. The inelegance made Joffrey feel better. Once the last member was seated, Joffrey started to speak. “When I first discussed the war with you all, I made clear our objective and asked that you consider how to best accomplish them. Today, we are going to discuss what you came up with.”

Despite addressing all three of the members in the council, Joffrey’s eyes were focused on Burton, making it clear who he was addressing. Burton picked up on it and replied, “You wanted options. On the strategic level, we have three. We can go on the offensive against the Stark boy, we can go on the offensive against Stannis, or we could hold our ground and get killed when they come for us.”

The frankness of his statement startled Joffrey. “Why would holding our ground be such a bad call?”

“We have two enemies at present- the Stark’s and the Baratheon’s. One coming from the North, the other the south. If we try to fight them at the same time, we’ll be fighting a war on two fronts. Fronts that are hundreds of miles from one another. Shifting troops between the North and the South is going to be a lengthy and difficult task- it’ll be nearly impossible to get reinforcements where they need to go.

“If we manage to close one of the fronts, however- we currently have the largest army of the five…” Here Burton hesitated. The ongoing conflict was commonly being called ‘The War of Five Kings,’ but referring to Joffrey’s opponents as kings in his presence was unwise. The word that Burton settled on was, “Candidates. We have the largest army of the candidates- especially when the Reach join us with their hundred-thousand men.

“If we close one front, we can mass our armies and overwhelm the other front.”

“You mentioned that we could either strike at Stannis or the Starks. Which would you recommend?”

“Stannis.” Burton’s answer was immediate and without delay.

The speed with which he answered surprised Joffrey, but it was Cersei that objected. “Stannis is a veteran commander. Robb Stark is just a boy.”

“That boy has humiliated us- the grand host of the Westerlands and by extension, your lord father, more times than any other. He has slaughtered our armies and marches on the heart of the Westerlands. That boy has the backing of two kingdoms and by proxy, the center of Westeros. That boy controls the North, the only kingdom to have never fallen to outside invaders. If pressed he could fall back behind Moat Cailin and hold us at bay indefinitely. That boy is Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, and he won’t fall easily.”

Cersei frowned, though it wasn’t clear if she was frowning because he disagreed with her or because of what he said. “You sound like you admire him.”

Burton smiled. His lips quirked upwards and yet his eye didn’t crinkle. “Admire him? No, I despise him. And yet you don’t despise your enemies for being incompetent at what they do- you despise them for their competence.” Burton turned back to Joffrey, “Your grace, it is my honest opinion that moving against the Starks would be folly.

“A war in the Riverlands would be hard enough- fighting among the mud and the fords. The long twisting streams give the River Lords an advantage in maneuver- they know where the streams lead and have boats to travel them, moving their armies around quickly. Once the war in the Riverlands is done, we still need to push North and force them to yield, and that can’t be done quickly. When we do fight North, we are going to need our navy.”

Barrock jolted upright, as though surprised that his division was mentioned. “Me? I mean- my lord and-” he glanced at Joffrey, who wasn’t looking amused at his stammering. Barrock forcibly gathered himself and calmed him down. When he opened his eyes next, he wasn’t looking at the highborn, and instead, he looked at the map.

“I can guess what you want us to do. An attack on Moat Cailin would be folly. The castle is impregnable from the south and if it’s northern face is free; it can receive regular supplies and can’t be besieged. I’m assuming you want us to sail you around and land your armies on one of the coasts so you can ignore the castle entirely, am I right?”

Burton and Joffrey were both impressed. Given his less than stellar first impression, this was more than they expected of him. “That would be correct,” Burton replied. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Currently, the Royal Navy is stuck in harbor, courtesy of Stannis’s navy. If we try to attack the North first, then yes, there is a problem. If we can beat Stannis, then we’ll have free reign over the east coast, but that brings up a new issue. Mainly that we are down to twenty-three ships, only thirteen of whom are transports. At best, I can transport little over a thousand men at a time and given the distance…”

He trailed off, but Burton picked up on what he was trying to say. “Too slow,” he grimaced. “By the time we brought the second batch up, the first would already be dead. And that’s not counting supply lines.”

“If we beat Stannis on the field, can we convince members of the Royal Navy to come back into the fold?”

“You would forgive traitors?” Cersei didn’t sound judgmental, merely curious.

Joffrey shrugged. “Above all, I choose victory. Stannis isn’t the last enemy we are going to have to fight. If I can bring the Stormlanders back into the fold by showing amnesty and use their troops to kill Stark, then that is what I’ll do.”

A moment's silence and- “It might be doable, your grace.” Barrock was the one who spoke. He looked embarrassed when they looked at him, but he soldiered on, “Ships being captured isn’t all too rare of an event, but it isn’t particularly common either. Most certainly not on the scale needed for an invasion of the North.”

Another moment's silence and- “Sell Sails.”

“Pardon, your grace?”

“We can hire mercenaries to get us North. My grandfather is rich- he has all the wealth of Casterly Rock backing him up. We can use that money to hire Sell Sails if we have to.”

A final moment of silence while the four of them mulled it over. Eventually, Burton summarized their predicament. “I think we are getting ahead of ourselves. When the time comes for us to move against the Starks, the situation will be radically different than it is now.

“We might have more ships if we capture some of Stannis’s, or we might have less if we lose a naval battle. We might need Sell Sails, we might not. It is far too early to say.”

“Your right, of course.” Joffrey squeezed his eye shut, trying to collect his thoughts. “I think that all of us would agree that our best option, for the time being, would be to focus on Stannis?”

Barrock and Burton both let out a hearty, “Aye.” Cersei didn’t say anything, but when Joffrey glanced over at her, she nodded to show her support. “We have a target then. I suppose grandfather is going to have to hold with the troops he has. In the interim, we still must decide where we are going to fight Stannis- and how.

“I have taken initiative and started recruitment for a new host, as well as mobilizing the troops that we have. Given a month, we can expect to raise an army of twenty-five thousand soldiers, mostly peasant levies armed with either pikes or crossbows. On the naval side, we have twenty-three ships. I don’t expect them to play much of a role in the upcoming conflict.

“Lord Burton, you mentioned that we can’t afford to wait for them to come to us. How long do you think we should wait before we make our move?”

Burton was quiet for a long time. Eventually, he answered, “I can train my troops while we march south if I have to. I’ll get started on teaching the soldiers that we have how to fight in formation while I wait for more troops to trickle in. Once I’ve gotten the army gathered, I’ll begin marching, training as I go.

“Once I get to the Stormlands, I can focus on securing important castles like the Bronze Gate and set up a supply route, as well as serve as an improvised shock troop, picking off troops trying to link up with Stannis. When the Tyrell host arrives, send them to join me. Once our armies merge, we’ll smash Stannis’s main host and bring the war to its conclusion.”

Joffrey looked dubious, and Burton himself didn’t look pleased with the plan, but there was little to be done about it. Speed would be paramount in the coming campaign. With Stark continuously pressuring the Northern front, closing the Southern war as quickly as possible would be paramount.

No one else had a better idea, so Joffrey gave his assent. Outside the birds chirped and sang under a bright blue sky. Joffrey didn’t doubt that soon the sky would be darkened with smoke and the birds would sing no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

Joffrey had lived in the United States of America before his reincarnation into Westeros, at a time where the country was more divided than it had been during the Civil War. States were divided along party lines, with certain states like New York and California siding regularly with Democrats, while others like Texas and Alabama sided with Republicans.

Even in these cases, however, there were holdouts. In the case of New York and California, the upstate area and Orange County were conservative, while in the case of Texas and Alabama, urban centers like Houston and Rocket City were liberal.

It could be said that New York was liberal, and Alabama was conservative overall, but once you start going down from the state level, you start getting a more nuanced picture. The picture got yet more nuanced the further down you went.

So it was with the United States, so it was with Westeros.

Instead of political parties, they had kings. Instead of fifty states, they had seven kingdoms. And instead of elections, they had wars.

The way Joffrey viewed it, the war in the south could be thought of as an election to determine who would be the next king, with two possible candidates. Himself and Stannis. The more lords the candidates could sway, the larger the armies of the candidates got, and the larger the chance of them winning the ‘election’ got.

On the surface, the entirety of the Crownlands and the Reach ought to have been loyal to Joffrey, while the Stormlands stood for Stannis, but as with Alabama and New York, the further one went down the list, the more nuanced that picture got, and in that nuance lay opportunity.

“How did it go?”

“Well.” The sentence was stilted. Guarded. Tyrion watched his nephew with guarded eyes, slightly slumped in his red leather chair, making the dwarf seem even shorter. “Forgive me, your grace, but why am I doing this?”

“Because Lord Ralph Buckler is a devout man who hates heathen, and Stannis happens to be a heathen.”

Nuance was important but spend too much time on the trees and you will miss the forest. Joffrey couldn’t spend his time trying to court every peasant in the kingdom. Even at the best of times, that would be an impossible task. The further down the list one got, the more people there tended to be.

Instead, he would have to focus upward and appeal to the lords and ladies of the realm- not the peasants. If he could convince the nobles, the opinions of individual peasants living on their lands would become irrelevant.

To do so, Joffrey had three tools. GGG. Gold, God, and Glory.

Of the three, gold was decidedly lacking. The Crown did have some capital left and could borrow more from the Faith. Also, once the route to the Westerlands was secure, Joffrey could implore Tywin to open the treasury of Casterly Rock to fuel the war.

At the moment, however, Joffrey’s financial situation was not so stable. The Crown was six million in debt, and while the capital that they did have left would be better spent on arming, training, and paying soldiers.

While Joffrey was still willing to offer bribes, he was practically limited in how many lords he could bribe and would have to exercise discretion in which ones he did bribe, mainly limiting himself to lords that controlled strategically important areas.

God and Glory were more readily available. Neither of them would cost the crown a penny, and in certain cases, they would be more useful. It would be honorless to betray your liege lord for gold, after all. If you’re doing your duty to God, however, things were much more morally acceptable.

The hardest thing was to determine what tool to use on what lord. In the case of Lord Buckler, however, it was rather obvious.

“The Lord of the Bronze Gate,” Tyrion cottoned on quickly.

Joffrey nodded.

The first and largest obstacle to Joffrey’s goal of putting down Stannis’ rebellion was the Bronze Gate. Despite its name, the Bronze Gate wasn’t a gate. It was a castle on the border of the Stormlands and the Crownlands, and more importantly, it was the first castle an invading army would encounter if following the King’s Road.

The King’s Road was a two-thousand-mile-long road, starting at the Wall and ending at Storm’s End. Along the way, it passed through the Crownlands and more specifically, the capital. The capital also intersected with every other major road in the realm, such as the Rose Road, linking the Reach and the Crownlands together.

If the Bronze Gate fell into Royalist hands, the war would get immeasurably easier. A supply convoy would start at the Reach, containing gambeson armor as well as food. The convoy would move down the relatively safe Rose Road before reaching the capital, where it would be joined by fresh recruits, boiled leather armor, and steel weapons. The convoy would then move down the King’s Road to the Bronze Gate where it would replenish the army.

If the Bronze Gate didn’t fall into Royalist hands, then the war would get harder. It would block off access to the King’s Road, meaning that both the army and supply trains would be relying on local roads- roads that hadn’t seen any maintenance under Joffrey’s predecessors. They’d be slower and more susceptible to ambushes, and for a campaign that relied on speed, that was a death blow.

It would also be a blow if the lord of the castle, Ralph Buckler, didn’t surrender and forced a siege. Because of his castle’s importance and positioning, the Bronze Gate was well maintained. If one were to siege it, it could take months. The idea of storming the castle came up but was quickly dismissed. Their army was too inexperienced to take it without major losses.

It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that Lord Buckler was the most important elector in this war, and luckily, Joffrey knew exactly what motivated him. He had funded nearly a dozen septs to be built in his lands, nearly bankrupting his house in the process. Buckler was one of the truest allies that the faith had in Westeros.

Everyone that knew the Lord agreed that if the faith sanctified Joffrey’s war, Buckler was guaranteed to switch sides. As it happened, Buckler was already a hairsbreadth from rebelling against Stannis, even without Royal support. He had been ever since news reached him that Stannis had burned the statues of the seven at Dragonstone.

Having thought it over, Tyrion nodded slowly. “It will probably work on Lord Buckler,” he confirmed, “But I hope you’ve tempered your expectations going forward. Not all lords will be so easy to sway.”

Joffrey shrugged without thinking. Not a very kingly gesture. There would always be holdouts. Ones that wouldn’t turn on Stannis no matter what was offered to them. Trying to predict all of them was an exercise in futility.

“I’ve given Lord Crakehall permission to play things by ear. Negotiate where possible and fight where not- the situation on the ground will be developing too quickly to wait for instructions from the capital. At any rate, bringing the Faith under our control offers us much and costs us little.

“The current High Septon- the fat one-” Joffrey paused while trying to think of a way to phrase his thoughts. “Did you hear that he’d been to one of Littlefinger’s brothels yesterday? He dressed up seven whores as the gods and fucked them.”

“Even the father and the warrior?” Tyrion asked, humor in his voice.

“Not all the whores were women,” Joffrey confirmed a light grin stretching across his face. They shared a laugh, and at the end of it, Tyrion gave Joffrey an assessing look. “You’ve changed,” he remarked.

Joffrey ignored that statement. Tyrion was fishing for information, and Joffrey saw no reason to humor him. Instead, Joffrey directed the conversation back to the faith. “The Fat One is notoriously corrupt. Never has the Faith been more susceptible to outside influence than under him. If we manage to control him, we can use his ability to appoint members of the Most Devout to pack the college with loyalists, which will, in turn, allow us to choose a new High Septon when he dies.”

The High Septon was elected by the Most Devout, but while in office, he could appoint and dismiss members of the Most Devout, which gave him control over who his successor would be.

“I appointed you as our negotiator with the Faith,” Joffrey continued, “because the two of you share many of the same interests. Women and wine. Connect with him, bribe him, do what you must do. Just get me control over the faith.”

Tyrion nodded, his thoughts spinning as to how to proceed. “What of after the war?”

“Come again?”

“After the war. If we’re just looking to control the High Septon for the duration of the war, then we could keep things-” now it was Tyrion’s turn to look for a better way to phrase his thoughts. He settled on, “Informal. We can keep things informal. A few bribes here, a whore there, maybe a few feasts for good measure.

“If you want things longer term, we will have to institutionalize the practice, drafting new laws and integrating the Faith and the office of High Septon into the government. The problem with that is that it takes away a lot of the neutrality of the Faith, which is exactly what makes them a useful arbiter in the first place.

“If we start integrating the Faith into our government, it won’t be viewed as a neutral arbiter. People the faith condemn could claim that it’s not the will of the Gods that is denouncing them, it is the will of the king.”

Joffrey could see how that could be a problem. A referee wasn’t neutral when he came in wearing the other team’s jersey. At the same time, however, having control of the Faith opened too many doors for Joffrey to ignore.

“Lay the groundwork,” Joffrey said, carefully thinking things through as he spoke. “Start bringing the faith into the fold. We’ll let them exercise some independence until we have Lord Buckler on board. Once we’ve secured the Bronze Gate and placed men loyal to ourselves within its walls, we can do away with the political fiction and start exercising our control over the faith.”

“That might alienate a lot of neutral Storm Lords- especially if they believe that this will expand the power of the Lannister’s.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Joffrey said dismissively. “News travels slowly, especially during wars. If we delay the proceedings enough and time things well, by the time they find out, we’ll already be in control.”

"There are risks to this plan,” Tyrion said. There wasn’t an ounce of condemnation in his voice, but there was plenty of caution.

“There is a risk to everything we do now. We’re at war,” Joffrey replied, thinking of the High Sparrow. He had taken control after the next two High Septons had died- the Fat One ripped apart by an angry mob, while his successor was suffocated with a pillow by Osmund Kettleback.

“There are as many risks to not having control of the Faith in these trying times as there are to taking control of it,” Joffrey continued. If he didn’t take control of the Faith, he risked the High Sparrow or a similar figure taking over. If he did, he risked alienating neutral lords. “Ultimately, all we can do is measure risk and reward. It should be noted that the other Lords don’t have a plethora of options to choose from. Stannis worships R’hllor, Greyjoy worships the Drowned God, and Stark worships trees. Even if I’m not their favorite person, they should still support me out of lack of choices.”

Joffrey trailed off, trying to order his chaotic thoughts. When he spoke again, he repeated, “All we can do is measure risk and reward. In this instance, I do believe that reward outweighs the risk- especially if we take the appropriate measures to mitigate risks.”

Tyrion didn’t reply at first, merely watching Joffrey with mismatched eyes. Eventually, he did speak. “As you say. Shall I get back to it?”

Joffrey exhaled, glad that Tyrion had agreed. If he hadn’t Joffrey would still have gone through with his plan, but he would have had to find a new diplomat and he didn’t know any at present. Gladly, he dismissed Tyrion.

As he watched the imp waddle out of the room, Joffrey relaxed. The orders for weapons had been sent, diplomatic missions assigned, and recruitment had begun. All things to do with the war had been covered on Joffrey’s end.

Now all that was left to do was wait and hope the men he had assigned to the tasks proved to be up to the coming challenge. The fate of his kingdom rested on it.


End file.
